


A Severe Krem

by AParticularlyLargeBear



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age Inquisition - Fandom
Genre: Bull is cackling somewhere, Dreadful pun title, Ficlet, Fluff, Non-Binary Inquisitor, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-27
Updated: 2015-09-27
Packaged: 2018-04-23 13:49:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4879249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AParticularlyLargeBear/pseuds/AParticularlyLargeBear
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A short story for a friend's birthday. Sev Trevelyan struggles to get to grips with their identity. Krem offers his support.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Severe Krem

When Sev Trevelyan was young, their parents dressed them in frocks and floral patterns and called them a precious little girl.

When Trevelyan got a little older, they pitched a fit and didn’t want to wear those kinds of clothes – or at least, not all the time, and their parents called them fussy and ridiculous, and asked why they had to make things so difficult.

At ten years old, Sev found the barber’s scissors in Lady Trevelyan’s room, and in short order, their plaits were on the floor.

Their parents screamed at them for that.

‘Do you WANT to look like a boy?’

And no, not exactly. It was just… Sev didn’t want to look like a girl ALL the time, just like they didn’t want to be a boy so much as… cutting off the hair was the most direct way of getting around the issue - but that was really difficult to explain when you were just a kid.

It blew over in time, but Sev’s hair never got that long again. That was fine.

Teenaged years brought expectations. Be presentable, be pretty, be gregarious and witty and charming for prospective suitors and the Trevelyan reputation, but Sev’s brothers had that too, more or less, so sometimes they could let themselves forget that it was a matter of being made to be feminine. Not for long though, not when the tailors brought out the measurements and the dresses and the corsetry and frankly it was torture, because one day Sev would just LOVE to be looking their amazing petticoated best… but the next, they’d be shooting wistful glances at the dress uniforms and the brightly coloured military tunics.

Sometimes both at once. Why, they wondered, did clothes have to be such a big deal? Why couldn’t a person just wear what they wanted to wear?

Still, Sev had other means of driving their parents to distraction; the swordplay definitely wasn’t something their mother was fond of, though their father thought it a delight. Albeit, Sev knew, because he felt it was hilarious to see his ‘daughter’ showing up the sons of other Marchers. Sev was forced to grin and nod and bear the praise as best they could, because at least it wasn’t being sent off to the Chantry.

The women of the Chantry made huge decisions, important decisions, they brought the Maker’s word to the world. Sev admired them, but they weren’t one of them. They didn’t belong amongst the sisters and the mothers, just as they didn’t quite belong with the soldiers and knights and grooms either.

At least there was a hidden kind of delight in strapping down their chest, filching clothes from their brother’s room, and posing as a rakish young man at a soiree. Even if their ribs ached for days afterwards.

The Maker had… well, Sev didn’t know what was in His plan, but He’d seen fit to put Sev’s heart and mind somewhere in the middle, or maybe either or maybe…

Sev wasn’t a philosopher. They couldn’t articulate it in words, they just knew what they were and what they weren’t.

Their involvement with the Inquisition happened by accident. ‘Trip to Orlais’ somehow turned into ‘deliver a message to a Revered Mother’ into ‘check in on the Conclave and make sure we’re seen to be taking an interest’. To Sev, it was an excuse to be on their own and autonomous for a little longer, so void, they’d take that, draw the damn thing out as long as possible. Besides, there was a war going on and the Conclave could be the way it was brought to a close. Sev liked an idea of being a little part of history.

Then everything exploded.

Sev was thrust into importance, into responsibility. Now they were _Lady_ Herald, _Lady_ Trevelyan. This was unpleasant. Lady Trevelyan was Sev’s mother. Eventually they parleyed it into Serah Trevelyan, which was neutral enough to make them feel a little less bad, albeit still truly and utterly out of their depth.

How could they be a leader? They weren’t even sure who _they_ were.

But they persevered, because it was that or let just about ABSOLUTELY EVERYONE down, and that went just a _little_ against Sev’s grain.

And heck, at least they got to meet people, new and interesting people who were a little better about preconceived notions, or rather, weren’t trying to cram Sev into a neat box reading ‘noble daughter’. They got some respect as their own person for once, instead of a heiress in waiting slash marriageable asset.

It wasn’t perfect. To the Inquisition they was still an ‘asset’, still a piece on the board to be picked up and moved here and there, but Sev supposed there were worse places to be. Apparently they were now a _big_ part of history.

Sort of cool. Completely terrifying.

Sev kept going, regardless, kept going past the battles with mages and templars and Maker-loving ancient darkspawn and ENORMOUS CORRUPTED DRAGONS and dropping a mountain on their own head and… wow, somewhere along the lines this had got extremely crazy. Maybe they should be wary of wishing for more excitement in their lives.

* * *

 

It was in Skyhold when there was a tap on Sev’s shoulder after they finished up a hellacious sparring session with Iron Bull. (Bull won, Bull always won. He always seemed to have a dirty trick up his damn … lack of sleeves).

When Sev turned, there stood Krem, Bull’s lieutenant, and looking back, they supposed that was where things started.

“Hey, uh. Um… your worship, I don’t mean to – I’m not trying to impose or anything…”

“Krem, c’mon, relax.”

“I… look, I know it really isn’t any of my business, but I wanted to make sure you’re not hurting yourself binding.”

And that one turned Sev’s world on its head. Again. Did that leave it the right way up? Or just double inverted?

Regardless they fell to talking, after that, after Krem gave Sev a few pointers that they hadn’t known about at all. Before long, Krem divulged some of his own past, they found common ground – a lot of common ground, actually. It felt… good to have someone else to confide in, someone who understood how it was to not quite feel right in one’s own skin. The Inquisition held many sympathetic ears, but few enough like Krem’s. They were alike. Not _identical_ , but alike.

So maybe Sev began to hang around in the Herald’s Rest more. Perhaps they started to get to know Bull a bit better, and put up with the man’s torrent of abysmal puns (at various times, Sev had been ‘Severed’, ‘Severe’ and ‘Several’) – labouring in solidarity with Krem.

And they befriended the Chargers too, stuck up an unlikely chord with the band of misfits, and though they could never quite be one of the pack, because they were the Herald and now the Inquisitor, it felt something like a home, something like a family. It made being away from their real family a little more bearable, at least, because regardless of whether or not Sev agreed with them, the Trevelyans were still parents and siblings and they loved them, and missed them.

More importantly than anything else, Krem just _understood._

He didn’t look at Sev weirdly when they strolled up in full Inquisition regalia. He had a smile and a wave when Sev borrowed from Josephine’s wardrobe, and blessed Andraste, that was enough. That support was an immeasurable boost to the confidence, and though it wasn’t always easy, when at times they still called Sev ‘lady’, or made crude remarks about their propensity to swap their presentation on a whim…

They had a friend. They had _friends._

Or, maybe…

The _Herald’s Rest_ was packed to the rafters and Sev had drunk enough to have a bit of a buzz but not enough to keel over, and they sought out their usual place by the far side of the bar with Bull.

Dalish was there, Skinner too, and Sev was certain the smouldering looks weren’t their imagination. Rocky was snoring under Bull’s stool, Krem lounged in his own chair. No space for Sev… but then there was a smile and a wink and a pat of the lap from Bull – and an attendant scoff from Sev.

Maybe it was just the desire to one up Bull, or just see what he’d do, but Sev turned and plopped down in Krem’s lap instead – and the Tevene’s eyes just about popped out of his head.

A few drinks later and Sev had thoroughly made Krem’s lap their own domain (and caught Krem mouthing ‘help’ over their shoulder), dissolving into fits of giggles each time Bull cracked a joke.

Somewhere along the line Krem’s arm went around their waist, and they found to their own surprise that actually, they didn’t mind all that much. And somewhere along the line, Sev’s head was laid on Krem’s chest, tucked just underneath his chin, and Sev found that _Krem_ didn’t mind.

Sev, certainly, didn’t mind when Krem’s hand reached gently downward and tilted their chin upward, and they shared a moment of wordless eye contact that, for all that it was silent, said absolutely everything.

They both ignored the whooping from the Chargers as they stumbled out of the bar, hand in hand, because that night, they had each other.

That night, they belonged.

And Maker, having someone else? That was worth the glint in Bull's eye the following morning as he prepared to launch his latest volley of wordplay.

...Mostly. 


End file.
